Sophia Holmes and the Study in Pink
by Dralice99
Summary: Book 1 Linked suicides? The Police clueless? Sophia Holmes and her father believe they can help solve a mystery that riddles the public. But can they find the murderer before they strike again?
1. Prologue

Prologue

My father's cries draw me into the living room. I find him knelt beside my mum, her head on his lap as he buries his head in her soft black hair, matted with dried blood. Her eyes are open, but the glimmer that always seemed to be there is gone. A small hole on her chest stains her white blouse and creates a little puddle around her body on the floor. I blink curiously at the scene, not understanding what's going on. Why's daddy crying? Why's mummy sleeping on the floor with her eyes open? I want to wake her up, but I can't so I start crying too. Why isn't mummy waking up?

I lurch upright in a cold sweat. Clinging to the sides of the bed, I attempt to stop the panting by convincing myself that it was just a nightmare. Nothing more than a reoccuring nightmare of an event long past. I shiver against the cold of the night and the adreneline which has now ensued.

I fall back onto my pillow and brush the tight black curls from my eyes. My breathing steadies slightly, but the trauma of seeing the lifeless body of my mum again after so long keeps me from relaxing. Each time I close my eyes, I'm haunted by images of her body flashing before me.

Tears threaten to fall and I bury my face in my pillow in an attempt to muffle my cries from my dad. He's probably up already, and worried about me waking up again.

I thought detaching myself from the world would help like it did for dad, but it hasn't. I can manage for most of the time, but when I'm alone, and it's dark, emotion breaks it down and logic fails.

Why I'm still getting these dreams is one mystery I doubt I'll ever solve. It all happened so long ago. Even her murderer was caught in the end so it's not as though we didn't get closure.

I am Sophia Elizabeth Holmes, daughter of the only Consulting Detective, Sherlock Holmes, and the late Irene Adler. But we don't talk about her any more. People used to say I take after my mother for looks, but I have the high cheekbones, cold grey eyes and bouncy black curls of my father as well as a cool, calculating mind. I used to be a lot like mother, but after her death I became closed off, focusing my mind on the more important things in life from an early age.

Realising I won't get any more sleep tonight, I sit back up and switch on the lamp beside me. The shadows dancing around my room fade away, for the moment. It's still fairly dark outside, but by the position of the sun and the light intensity, I would say its 5:32 am. A quick glance at my alarm confirms my theory. My head is buzzing with a thousand different thoughts flying through, refusing to stay still. I'm bored, and we all know where that leads.

"You've got toothpaste around your mouth," dad mutters as I emerge from the bathroom we share. As usual, he's poised in front of his laptop, typing fast, but he stops suddenly and turns to face me. "Your nightmares are back, aren't they," I nod, and he smiles sadly. "It'll get better, I promise." He turns back to the laptop and begins tapping away again. As I head back towards the bathroom to wash off the toothpaste mentioned, I catch a glimpse of the morning's newspaper on the table.

"Nothing interesting?" I ask, referring to the paper, but he doesn't reply. He had set an empty bowel on the side for my cereal, but I'm not hungry. I need something stronger, somthing to keep me awake. As I make my coffee, I let my mind sift through all the facts I've collected this week to see if anything fits in with the case.

"Sophie, I need your opinion on this." I peer over the counter to dad's laptop on the table. A newspaper heading read out: 'SIR JEFFREY PATTERSON DEAD. SUICIDE OR MURDER?' Underneath, a picture of the business man accompanies the text.

"It's hard to say by looking at the picture. Fairly old image judging by the picture quality which could mean that there were obvious signs in the later photos which would point to it being a suicide. The absence of these images suggest that the police are under the impression that it was murder." I pause to take a breath of air and to evaluate the portrait further. "Successful man - even mildly famous in the world of business - but why would his suicide, or as the papers suggest, his murder be front page unless something is going on behind the scenes?" Dad nods in agreement. "Has this got you interested?" I ask, a smile creeping up on my face. He looks like a boy on Christmas morning.

"Let's go dig our noses in, shall we?"


	2. Chapter 1

"Isn't Sir Jeffreys death old news? I thought he died a while ago." I ask as we walk with the flow of the busy London Street, turning our collars up to protect us from the late January breeze.

"He died mid-October last year," dad confirmed, "and found by his secretary Helen Hewlett after tracing the phone to an empty office block."

"So why are you bringing this up now?"

"Because Scotland Yard seem to believe it's linked to the more recent deaths of James Phillimore and Bethany Davenport."

"How can suicides be linked?" I ask, puzzled.

"That's what I'm going to find out." We stop outside 221B in Baker Street.

"Is this it?" I ask as he knocks on the door but he ignores it. So this is our new flat? Areas nice, but the neighbours look a bit unfriendly. Not that it should matter.

An elderly lady with short, dyed blonde hair opens the door for us.

"Sherlock, hello again," I watch as the two embrace for a brief second before dad steps back. She's not my grandmother: her appearance doesn't fit with the photos I was shown. Not his sister - too old - so an old client.

"Mrs Hudson, my daughter Sophia Holmes," dad introduces and I step forward.

"Oh, hello, dear." Mrs Hudson smiles, embracing me as well. I nod, a small smile on my face at the sign of affection as I also break away. "Come in." I walk in through the door and look around and the dim brushes past me and heads upstairs, so I follow behind him.

"Sophie, I need you to hook the mic and my phone up to the Police Conference again please," he requests as I reach the top and I nod, already heading towards the desk.

"On it," I reply. Dad is fairly competent when it comes to technology - better than most fathers and certainly a lot of the other detectives - but he leaves me to handle the arguabley more difficult and lenghty tasks such as hacking into the Scotland Yard's network.

I flip open my shoulder bag and pull out my laptop. Opening it up, the screen blinks awake from it's previously dormant condition and I set it down on the desk. Digging into the bottom of the bag, I find a cable which I use to connect dad's phone to my computer. Next, I tap through the Scotland Yard security to find the contact details for everyone attending today's Press Conference. The mobile numbers of these people transfer within seconds to dad's phone, so I unplug it, and toss it back to him. Then, I click on the folder indicating the microphone, and open up the one we had placed in the conference hall, which is linked up to a screen so we can watch it as well. It is still quite early, and the reporters are still filing in. Nothing will be happening for at least half an hour.

Mrs Hudson comes up the stairs, limping slightly as she walks. She has a bad hip, I conclude.

"What do you think then, Sophia?" she asks, as she tidies up a dish from the side.

"Yeah, it's nice." I smile. "Very nice."

"There's a spare bedroom upstairs for you. I think your dad has already reserved the one on this floor." I nod and thank her as she continues to potter around. "What are you up to?" she asks, gesturing to my equipment.

"Research," I answer simply, and she titters to herself as she heads back downstairs. A while later, a man and a woman take their seats at the front of the hall and the room goes silent. "Sherlock, It's starting." I turn the volume up on the mic and shift over so dad can watch.

Detective Inspector Lestrade looks uncomfortable as Detective Sergeant Donovan addresses the reporters from beside him.

"The body of Beth Davenport, Junior Minister for Transport was found late last night on a building site in Greater London," she begins to the flashes of cameras from the reporters. "Preliminary investigations suggest that this was suicide. We can confirm that this apparent suicide closely resembles those of Sir Jeffrey Patterson and James Phillimore. In the light of this, these incidents are now being treated as linked. The investigation is ongoing but Detective Inspector Lestrade will take questions now."

A reporter speaks out. "Detective Inspector, how can suicides be linked?"

"Well, they all took the same poison;" Lestrade began, and it's clear to me that he's ad clueless as ever, "um, they were all found in places they had no reason to be; none of them had shown any prior indication of ..."

"But you can't have serial suicides," interrupts the same reporter.

"Well, apparently you can." Lestrade replies, annoyed at interruption. A second reporter speaks up.

"These three people: there's nothing that links them?"

"There's no link been found yet, but we're looking for it. There has to be one." Dad types something on his phone, and soon the conference hall is ringing with simultaneous text alerts.

"If you've all got texts, please ignore them." Donovan advises. The first reporter speaks up, looking confused.

"Just says, 'Wrong!'"

"Yeah, well, just ignore that," she responds, trying to hurry the conference along. She knows what we're trying to do. "Okay, if there are no more questions for Detective Inspector Lestrade, I'm going to bring this session to an end."

"But if they're suicides, what are you investigating?" the second reporter asks.

"As I say, these ... these suicides are clearly linked," Lestrade hesitates. He's not exactly doing his best, as usual. And he wonders why the papers always slag him off. "Um, it's an ... it's an unusual situation. We've got our best people investigating ..." Dad smirks, and types the same thing again.

"Says, 'Wrong!' again," the first reporter announces, but it's unnecessary. They know what we want and I see Lestrade shoot a desperate look at Donovan.

"One more question."

A different reporter, a female, speaks up this time. "Is there any chance that these are murders, and if they are, is this the work of a serial killer?"

"I ... I know that you like writing about these," Lestrade begins, "but these do appear to be suicides. We know the difference. The, um, the poison was clearly self-administered."

"Yes, but if they are murders, how do people keep themselves safe?"

"Well, don't commit suicide." What a ridiculous thing to say to a room full of reporters, let alone a Daily Mirror reporter. Donovan looks like she's muttering the same thing to Lestrade, who grimaces as he looks back to the reporters. "Obviously this is a frightening time for people, but all anyone has to do is exercise reasonable precautions. We are all as safe as we want to be." Dad shakes his head, and sends two messages, one after the other. Back on screen, the ringtones jingle in their own funny ways, but Lestrade's takes a moment longer. Dads clearly sent him the second message. Looking disgruntled, Lestrade puts his phone back into his pocket and stands up to address the reporters.

"Thank you." I close the tab, and look up at dad.

"He has no idea what he's doing." I smile. Dad returns it, meeting my eye.

"No, which is why he needs us."


	3. Chapter 2

Dad whirls around, grabbing his phone, and wrapping his scarf back around his coat.

Knowing my cue, I pack up and wrap my own scarf around. By the time I've got downstairs, dad is already out and in the waiting taxi, and gesturing for me to hurry up.

"St. Bartholomew's Hospital, please." The cab starts running, and I watch the scenery building up. Being in the centre of town will be handy, even if we're not the sort to do shopping.

"What are we doing?" I ask, knowing we must be going to Bart's for the bigger equipment, or a body in the morgue.

"Confirming an alibi," he says simply, before steepling his hands.

"Please say you're not using those patches again," I groan. He opens his eyes and glares at me to shut up. Then he senses my worry and his eyes soften and he shakes his head.

Not long after mum died, I found him unconscious on the sofa with five patches on his arms. The first few years were bad then and dad had broken off all relationships so very few people knew what he was going through. But I think we've passed that now and it's a time I never want to revisit.

The journey lasts only sixteen minutes, and then we get out, dad paying the cabbie behind me. I can only conclude that we've hopped back to a previous case then the one we're on now, taking into account that we haven't spoken to anyone yet on this case.

Together, we walk the corridors at a fast pace up to the morgue. A young woman with mousey hair is ahead of us, struggling to open the door due to the large tray that's balancing procariously on her arms.

"Molly, I need a body. Fresh as you can find."

"I can't really -"

"Good. I'll be in the morgue, I just need to get something." We spin around and head towards the research area on the other side of the hospital. I have not the faintest clue what he's doing. I can deduce a lot about most people, but with dad, nothing. Not unless he's being obvious about it.

Over near the labs, one of the lecturers dad knows quite well emerges from one of the rooms.

"Sherlock Holmes!" Dad forces a smile onto his face as he's forced to stop. "Haven't seen you around here for a bit. I heard you and your girl were away on a case. What happened?"

"It was the Spanish; nobody recognised the given name of the victim was the English of a place in Spain." Mike nods, pretending he understood.

"Still looking for a flatmate?" Mike asks, watching my dad.

"No and is it any wonder?!" dad exclaims, snorting. "Who'd want me for a flatmate? I have a motherless daughter, I play the violin at any time, night or day, and sometimes I don't speak. Who'd want to live with that?" Mike shrugs his large shoulders. "Could we borrow your riding crop please?" Dad smiles sweetly.

"I don't have that on me now," Mike responds, laughing and I eye him sceptically.

"Unless you've just returned from having a cirsceptamy, your stance and walk suggests you've just come from one of your appointments," I say and he raises an eyebrow."So who is it this time?" He doesn't respond but his silence says enough and he soon turns and heads back into his room for the crop.

A few minutes later, we're back in the morgue and I watch as dad unzips the body bag that's been placed on the table and peers at the corpse inside. Then he sniffs it.

"How fresh?" Molly Hooper walks over from the door.

"Just in. Sixty-seven, natural causes. He used to work here. I knew him. He was nice," she explains, unnecessarily. Dad zips the bag back up and straightens up, spinning around to face her and putting on a false smile.

"Fine. We'll start with the riding crop. Molly, help me get the body out and onto the table, Sophie, take in as much as you can, I'll be quizzing you later."

That's how he likes to teach me. Not algebra or climate change like they teach at school. What use is it, in the world of heros and villans and crimes and cases? This is much more useful.

Once she's helped with the corpse, Molly retreats into the observation room to apply some lipstick and to watch my dad disrespect the dead. It's not as if they mind. Dad lifts the crop high and repeatedly beats the body violently, making Molly flinch each time the crop comes in contact with the body. It's not the worst I've seen him do.

From what I can see, the deceased worked at Barts for ten years as an IT technician, but retired two years ago to spend more time with his grandchildren - one of which had terminal cancer. He lived alone after his wife had died, but he kept a picture of her wherever he went. Sentiment.

As dad finishes and straightens up, breathless, Molly walks back into the room.

"So, bad day, was it?" Molly jokes nervously to dad's ignorance as he pulls out his notebook and I take my cue to do the same and write up my observations.

"I need to know what bruises form in the next twenty minutes," dad tells her. "A man's alibi depends on it. Text me."

"Listen," she begins lamely, "I was wondering: maybe later, when you're finished ..." Dad stops scribbling to look up at her then gives her a double take and a frown.

"Are you wearing lipstick?" He asks, spoiling Molly's attempt to set up a date, "You weren't wearing lipstick before."

"I, er, I refreshed it a bit," she lies hesitantly, before sending him a coy smile. He stares back at her, oblivious to her flirting attempts. She should know by now that a relationship between them is never going to happen: he's been married to his job since mum died, and I don't think he believes any woman could fill that spot again.

Dad goes back to writing in his notebook. "Sorry, you were saying?"

"I was wondering if you'd like to have coffee." Dad flips his notebook shut and stores it away.

"Black, two sugars, please. I'll be upstairs, Sophia!" he says swiftly before walking away.

"Coming!" I call, stuffing my own notebook away, and saying a temporary 'goodbye' to Molly, I walk after him.


	4. Chapter 3

Up in the lab, I help dad try something out with a pipette and a petri dish. By the green colouring of the liquid, I can see that it's a solution used in the paint of metal. I found it on the victim's garden path, close to where the body was found in the pond. Two areas of gravel are found with traces of green paint, each are a meter apart. A meter apart and painted metal, a ladder, then. Superstitious man, walks round ladder, slips on the gravel and falls to his death in the pond. High levels of alcohol were found in his blood, but his wife said he didn't drink, however, the victim's brother had sent him some whisky which he then drinks. Conclusion, the brother sent someone to his house with a ladder, knowing his brother was superstitious. The ladder was placed in front of the pond so that when Jack walked around it, he would fall in. Case solved.

Someone knocks on the door and Mike enters and brings in a man who limps and leans heavily on a walking stick. He takes a look at all the equipment he passes, and I can see dad looking up briefly before he returns to the petri dish.

"Well, bit different from my day," he mutters, seeming to speak to no one. Mike chuckles.

"You've no idea!"

"Mike, can I borrow your phone? There's no signal on mine," dad lies.

"And what's wrong with the landline?" Mike challenges.

"I prefer to text."

"Sorry. It's in my coat." Mikes friend digs into his back pocket and pulls out a six-month old phone. Bit extravagant for someone who's looking for a flatshare.

"Er, here. Use mine." He says, holding the phone out for my dad to take. I stay over in the corner, noting down the results of the experiment.

"Oh. Thank you," dad glances briefly at Mike before striding over to the pair.

"It's an old friend of mine," Mike says, gesturing to the man, "John Watson." Dad takes the phone off of Mr Watson and turns around slightly, flipping open the keypad on his phone and tapping away.

"Afghanistan or Iraq?" Dad asks coolly, still typing up the conclusion of our case to Downing. Johns face is utter confusion as he frowns. Behind him, Mike smiles, aware of what dad's doing. I scan my eyes over the doctor and see where dad got that question from. His haircut is styled and he holds himself the same way as an army man would. Obviously he was an army doctor, as he stated a moment ago that he trained here, at Bart's. His face is tanned but from what I could see as he held his arm out, there was no tan above the wrists. So he's been abroad with the army. He relies on a walking stick because of a limp, but as he stands now, it's almost as if he's forgotten about it, which means it's psychosomatic. The original injury must have been traumatic. He's been invalided home from active service abroad, so the question is, Afghanistan or Iraq?

"Sorry?" Dr Watson asks, looking completely clueless, or just not wanting to talk about his ordeal.

"Which was it – Afghanistan or Iraq?" Dad raises his eyes briefly to meet Watsons, but then looks down to the phone once more.

"Afghanistan. Sorry, how did you know ...?" Molly walks in with dad's coffee, stopping him from explaining his question as he looks up.

"Ah, Molly, coffee. Thank you," He snaps the phone shut and hands it back to Dr Watson as Molly walks other with the coffee. She's removed the lipstick, probably because of what dad said earlier. At least he didn't say anything out of the ordinary. He seems to have noticed for himself as he inspects her closely and takes the mug.

"What happened to the lipstick?" Molly smiles awkwardly.

"It wasn't working for me."

"Really? I thought it was a big improvement. Your mouth's too small now." He criticises, frowning. Dad makes his way back towards me, taking a sip of his coffee, and grimacing.

"Okay," Molly mutters looking upset. Did she really mind that much? What a funny little brain she has. Molly turns and heads out of the room. I wonder if she's gone to put some more lipstick on, as she takes dads word for gospel.

"How do you feel about the violin?" dad asks absent minded as he taps away on his laptop, no doubt updating The Science of Deduction - the website we both share. John seems unaware that dad is talking to him as he watches Molly leave. He glances at Mike before he finally realises he's being spoken to.

"I'm sorry, what?"

"I play the violin when I'm thinking. Sometimes I don't talk for days on end, and I've got a daughter," he gestures back at me before looking round at Watson. I wave half-heartedly and he smiles. I take out my phone and start writing an additional thought to dad's last post on our website. "Would that bother you? Potential flatmates should know the worst about each other." He throws a really awful, false smile over to John who looks at him blankly for a moment before turning to Mike again.

"Oh, you ... you told him about me?"

"Not a word," says Mike, smiling smugly. Dr Watson turns to face us again.

"Then who said anything about flatmates?" Dad picks his coat up from the side and puts it on.

"I did. Told Mike this morning that I must be a difficult man to find a flatmate for. Now here he is just after lunch with an old friend, clearly just home from military service in Afghanistan. Wasn't that difficult a leap."

"How did you know about Afghanistan?" John asks, but dad ignores him, wrapping his dark blue scarf around his neck and picking up his phone from beside him. Considering he's supposed to have no signal, he checks it anyway. I must say, I have signal, and I'm only standing a few feet from him.

"Got my eye on a nice little place in central London. Together we ought to be able to afford it," he says, walking towards the door, and I follow close behind in a matching coat and scarf to his. "We'll meet there tomorrow evening; seven o'clock. Sorry – gotta dash. I think I left my riding crop in the mortuary." dad slips his phone into the inside pocket of his coat and then we walk past John to the door. The doctor turns to look at us, looking as confused as ever.

"Is that it?" Dad turns away from the door and strides back over to Dr Watson.

"Is that what?"

"We've only just met and we're gonna go and look at a flat?"

"Problem?" Dad asks looking a bit offended. Watson smiles in disbelief and looks at Mike for help. Mike just smiles and shrugs, leaving the doctor to fend for himself.

"We don't know a thing about each other; I don't know where we're meeting; I don't even know your name." Oh god, now he's going to show off, and I'm going to find out I'm completely right.

"I know you're an Army doctor and you've been invalided home from Afghanistan. I know you've got a brother who's worried about you but you won't go to him for help because you don't approve of him – possibly because he's an alcoholic; more likely because he recently walked out on his wife. And I know that your therapist thinks your limp's psychosomatic – quite correctly, I'm afraid." John looks down at his leg and shuffles his weight awkwardly as dad stands there, smiling smugly. I got most of it right, apart from the brother part, which I couldn't see anyway. "That's enough to be going on with, don't you think?" He walks back towards the door, brushing past me. Suddenly, he leans back into the room. "The name's Sherlock Holmes and the address is 221B Baker Street." He winks at John before looking at Mike. "Afternoon." Dad sweeps from the room, leaving a stunned doctor.

"Sophia Holmes, the less dramatic one." I smile kindly, before swishing my coat around and running out the door at after dad before he leaves me behind at Bart's, again.


	5. Chapter 4

The quiz that was set for me last night went really well, all of the questions he asked I got right.

It's aproaching seven o'clock and dad and I are stuck in traffic from Scotland Yard, where we've had to hand in our statement of Jack Downings murder to his wife, PC Jane Downing, who was also head of the case. I hop out of the taxi, just as Dr Watson limps down the street, clearly looking for 221B. He knocks on the door as dad steps out.

"Hello," dad calls happily to Watson as he steps out and hands the cabbie some money. "Thank you," dad says to the cabbie as Watson turns around, and dad and I walk over over to the door.

"Ah, Mr. Holmes."

"Sherlock, please," he insistes, wringing the doctors hand.

"And Sophia, isn't it?" I nod polietly and shrug.

"Or Sophie, I don't mind." John nods and looks around.

"Well, this is a prime spot. Must be expensive."

"Oh, Mrs Hudson, the landlady, she's giving me a special deal. Owes me a favour. A few years back, her husband got himself sentenced to death in Florida. I was able to help out." I smile, remembering the old man. I can now place where I remember Mrs Hudson from. He was an abusive husband.

"Sorry, you stopped her husband being executed?" Dad smiles at John, who's, at the moment, looking fairly impressed.

"Oh no. I ensured it." He looks slightly taken aback as the door is opened by Mrs Hudson herself, who opens her arms for both of us.

"Sherlock, Sophia, hello." We walk into her arms and embrace her briefly once more before dad steps back to present John to her.

"Mrs Hudson, Doctor John Watson."

"Hello,"

"How y'do?" Mrs Hudson gestures us in, smiling happily. She thinks Dr Watson is dads partner, going by the way she's treating him.

"Come in."

"Thank you."

"Shall we?" Dad asks, as John doesn't move forward.

"Yeah," Mrs Hudson mutters as she holds the door open for us and we go in. Dad pushes past us and lopes upstairs, then pauses as he waits for us to catch up. Dr Watson is hobbling up the stairs in front of me, and there isn't enough room to push up on through. As he finally reaches the landing, dad swings the living room door open dramatically and walks in, Dr Watson and I following behind. All of our stuff still lays scattered around in boxes.

"Well, this could be very nice. Very nice indeed," Dr Watson says, looking impressed.

"Yes. Yes, I think so. My thoughts precisely," dad looks happily around the flat, "So I went straight ahead and moved in."

"Soon as we get all this rubbish cleaned out ..." They say, simultaniously. That's not awkward at all ... "Oh." He pauses, clearly embarrased as it sinks in what dad was saying. To be honest, most of this stuff is rubbish. "So this is all ..."

"Well, obviously I can, um, straighten things up a bit," dad says, as he walks across the room, and half-heartedly throws some of my school folders back into my box whilst I attempt to tidy up by piling up a stack of books. The Holmes family isn't known for it's tidiness. John looks around and seems to notice skull on the mantel piece and he lifts up his walking stick to point at it.

"That's a skull," John points out.

"Friend of mine. When I say 'friend' ..." His only friend, or at least, the closest he has to one. Mrs Hudson finally makes an entrance, and I watch as she picks up th cup and saucer that dad was drinking from yesterday. Scanning for a book in one of the boxes, I sit down to read, taking off my greatcoat and scarf and throwing it into the kitchen. I might pick it up later.

"What do you think, then, Doctor Watson? There's another bedroom upstairs if you'll be needing two bedrooms." I roll my eyes at her ignorance. How awkward.

"Of course we'll be needing two." Dr Watson says, looking confused.

"Oh, don't worry; there's all sorts round here. Mrs Turner next door's got married ones," she says, sounding confident. As if dad would get involved in such trivial matters such as love. Not now, anyway. Dr Watson looks to dad for him confirm they aren't _involved_ in that sort of business, but he seems oblivious. Mrs Hudson walks across the room and into the kitchen, then turns back to frown at me and dad.

"Oh, Sherlock, Sophia. The mess you've made." I bite my lip and raise my eyebrows as she picks up my coat and scarf and hangs it up, then she starts tidying up our science equipment. Dr Watson walks over to the armchair closest to the kitchen and sits down opposite the chair dad favours. I look over my book to scan John over, to see if I can dig up more facts about him. Lives alone - obvious - trumatic past - obvious - and unwealty. Again, obvious. Why else would he be looking for a flatshare? He looks up to dad who is still tidying up.

"I looked you up on the internet last night," John says, out of the blue. Dad turns around, my head snaps up.

"Anything interesting?"

"Found your website, The Science of Deduction." I chuckle, whilst dad smiles proudly.

"What did you think?" John sends him a disbelieving look, and dad looks comically hurt. It's our website, to be fair, but I don't update it half as much as dad does.

"You said you could identify a software designer by his tie and an airline pilot by his left thumb," Doctor Watson remembers, and I laugh again. It's quite a simple deduction, and the airline pilot is primary knowlege.

"Yes; and I can read your military career in your face and your leg, and your brother's drinking habits in your mobile phone."

"How?" Watson questions, but dad smiles and turns away as Mrs Hudson comes back through from the kitchen, holding a newspaper that she found on the table.

"What about these suicides then, Sherlock? I thought that'd be right up your street. Three exactly the same," she seems to be a little behind on our cases, although our involvment in this one has been kept quiet. Dad walks over to the window, and looks out as I hear a car rumble to a stop outside. Four, but this one's different.

"Four," dad states looking down. The blue lights reflect across the room, indicating that Lestrade has decided to contact us at last. He wouldn't have come to us unless it was different, unusual. "There's been a fourth. And there's something different this time," dad voices my thoughts, and I stand up, placing my book on the table.

"A fourth?" Mrs Hudson gasps, confused. Dad turns to face Lestrade who he watches trot up the stairs.

"Where?" dad asks, without hesitation. Lestrade looks to me before answering.

"Brixton, Lauriston Gardens," I let off a small gasp - that was where I was found after I ran away. Dad ignores this.

"What's new about this one? You wouldn't have come to get me if there wasn't something different."

"You know how they never leave notes?"

"Yeah."

"This one did. Will you come?"

"Who's on forensics?"

"It's Anderson," Lestrade answers, already knowing dads reaction. That idiot is so dumb, it's unbelievable.

"Anderson won't work with me."

"Well, he won't be your assistant," Lestrade answers, as if that makes it okay.

"I need an assistant." dad mutters.

"What about Sophie?" Lestrade asks, gesturing towards me. I make sure I look keen, but I know I'll come either way.

"No, she'll come as well, but I need someone with medical experience."

"Will you come?"

"Not in a police car. I'll be right behind," you have to love dads avoidment of police cars.

"Thank you," Lestrade says sincerly, before looking around at Doctor Watson and Mrs Hudson for a second and hurries off down the stairs again. More clues! A note! It's christmas! Dad and I wait until Lestrade has closed the front door before we let out our excitment. Dad leaps into the air and clenches his fists before twirling around. Sometimes, he can really be a big kid. I let my excitment out by running over to Mrs Hudson and Doctor Watson and hugging them tightly. Yes, I'm weird. No, I don't care.

"Brilliant! Yes! Ah, four serial suicides, and now a note! Oh, it's Christmas!" I grab my coat and scarf off of the hook in the kitchen, whilst dad picks up his and starts to put it on as he follows me into the kitchen.

"Mrs Hudson, I'll be late. Might need some food."

"I'm your landlady, dear, not your housekeeper." Mrs Hudson sighs, as dad and I still scurry around. Dad picks up his crime scene pass, and I tap my pocket to make sure I have mine. I might need to pickpocket Donovon again sometime. "Something cold will do," dad continues, ignoring Mrs Hudsons protests, "John, have a cup of tea, make yourself at home. Don't wait up!"

"Bye!" I scream, before leaving afrer him. I reach the front door before it clicks. "Sherlock, John Watson is a doctor," his eyes widen, and he sprints back upstairs. I follow him and I get to the top of the stairs in time to see dad stand in the doorframe to the living room.

"You're a doctor. In fact you're an Army doctor," dad says. John gulps, his left hand trembling slightly.

"Yes," he confirms, standing back up and turning towards dad as he enters the room again.

"Any good?"

"Very good," Doctor Watson mutters again.

"Seen a lot of injuries, then; violent deaths."

"Mmm, yes."

"Bit of trouble too, I bet." Doctor Watson nods.

"Of course, yes," he says quietly, almost whispering. "Enough for a lifetime. Far too much."

"Wanna see some more?"

"Oh God, yes," he says, feverently. I step back around and lead the boys down the stairs.

"Sorry, Mrs Hudson, I'll skip the tea. Off out," Doctor Watson shouts as he comes down the stairs behind dad. Mrs Hudson stands at the bottom of the stairs, looking dissapointed.

"Both of you?" I stop by the door, but dad spins around on his heel and walks back towards her.

"Impossible suicides? Four of them? There's no point sitting at home when there's finally something fun going on!" He takes her by the shoulders and kisses her on the cheek.

"Look at you, all happy. It's not decent," she smiles as he turns around for the door.

"Who cares about decent? The game, Mrs Hudson, is on!" Dad pushes past me and hails an approaching cab. "Taxi!" The taxi pulls up in front of us and I slip into the middle of Doctor Watson and my dad. Going on past experience, I know that the journey will take around three quarters of an hour, depending on London traffic. I pull out my phone, a samsung galaxy ace if you were curious, and start tapping away. I like to write short stories when I'm going on a long journey. Dad copys me, pulling out his own phone. I can see him type up the conclusion to the green ladder. I might add a comment on it later, if I get bored. We do this for about half an hour, every once in a while I can see out of the corner of my eye Doctor Watson stealing nervous glances at me and dad. At last, dad gets the point, and lowers his phone.

"Okay, you've got questions."

"Yeah, where are we going?"

"Crime scene. Next?"

"Who are you? What do you do?" Don't get him started on this.

"What do you think?"

"I'd say private detective ..." Doctor Watson says slowly.

"But?"

"... but the police don't go to private detectives."

"I'm a consulting detective. Only one in the world. I invented the job. Sophia is training up to be the second."

"What does that mean?"

"It means when the police are out of their depth, which is always, they consult me."

"The police don't consult amateurs." I choke on my laugh, and dad sends him a hurt look. Here he goes, he's going to prove his point if it kills him.

"When I met you for the first time yesterday, I said, 'Afghanistan or Iraq?' You looked surprised."

"Yes, how did you know?"

"I didn't know, I saw," I roll my eyes, but stop tapping on my phone. Time to check my deductions. "Your haircut, the way you hold yourself says military. But your conversation as you entered the room said trained at Bart's, so Army doctor – obvious. Your face is tanned but no tan above the wrists. You've been abroad, but not sunbathing. Your limp's really bad when you walk but you don't ask for a chair when you stand, like you've forgotten about it, so it's at least partly psychosomatic. That says the original circumstances of the injury were traumatic. Wounded in action, then. Wounded in action, suntan – Afghanistan or Iraq." All right so far.

"You said I had a therapist."

"You've got a psychosomatic limp – of course you've got a therapist. Then there's your brother."

"Hmm?" I look at him, confused. What brother?

"Your phone. It's expensive, e-mail enabled, MP3 player, but you're looking for a flatshare – you wouldn't waste money on this. It's a gift, then." Dad holds his hand out expectantly for the phone, and John gives it to him. It's not my fault I couldn't deduce the phone part, I didn't see it.

"Scratches. Not one, many over time," he says, pointing to the screen. "It's been in the same pocket as keys and coins. The man sitting next to me wouldn't treat his one luxury item like this, so it's had a previous owner. Next bit's easy. You know it already."

"The engraving." Dad flips the phone over to show me the words on the back.

'Harry Watson

From Clara

xxx'

A gift from a family member. A female, going by the fingerprints on the screen underneath the protection. I can't be sure, though, going on the name of their partner.

"Harry Watson: clearly a family member who's given you his old phone. Not your father, this is a young man's gadget," dad thinks Harry's a boy, but I still can't be sure. I need a microscope. "Could be a cousin, but you're a war hero who can't find a place to live. Unlikely you've got an extended family, certainly not one you're close to, so brother it is. Now, Clara. Who's Clara? Three kisses says it's a romantic attachment. The expense of the phone says wife, not girlfriend. She must have given it to him recently – this model's only six months old. Marriage in trouble then – six months on he's just given it away. If she'd left him, he would have kept it. People do – sentiment. But no, he wanted rid of it. He left her. He gave the phone to you: that says he wants you to stay in touch. You're looking for cheap accommodation, but you're not going to your brother for help: that says you've got problems with him. Maybe you liked his wife; maybe you don't like his drinking."

"How can you possibly know about the drinking?" Doctor Watson asks slowly looking confused and a little upset. Dad smiles, naturally. I can see where he's coming from.

"Shot in the dark. Good one, though. Power connection: tiny little scuff marks around the edge of it. Every night he goes to plug it in to charge but his hands are shaking. You never see those marks on a sober man's phone; never see a drunk's without them," he hands the phone back and I see the said scuff marks by the connection.

"There you go, you see – you were right."

"I was right?" Says John, skeptically."Right about what?"

"The police don't consult amateurs." This is the part that will make or break their relationship.

"That ... was amazing." I look around at the doctor, so suprised. That isn't what people usually say when dad talks about their life story. Dad seems so suprised that he doesn't answer for around four seconds. He looks puzzled, as if John is having him on.

"Do you think so?"

"Of course it was. It was extraordinary; it was quite extraordinary."

"That's not what people normally say."

"What do people normally say?"

"'Piss off'!" Dad smiles at John for a second before he turns towards the window, smiling madly. I poke dad in the ribs and he looks back around at me, looking confused.

"What?" He mouths.

"You've got to stop doing that. It makes you seem creepy."

"It doesn't matter, I need an audience for my genius. I'm a show off - that's what we do!" The cab draws up at the end of the road which the crime scene is. As I step out behind dad, the memories come back to me. If I remember correctly, there is an old abandoned house a short walk down this road; around about where that police tape is...

"Did I get anything wrong?" Dad asks Doctor Watson as he gets out.

"Harry and me don't get on, never have. Clara and Harry split up three months ago and they're getting a divorce; and Harry is a drinker." Dad smiles to himself, obviously impressed.

"Spot on, then. I didn't expect to be right about everything."

"And Harry's short for Harriet." Dad and I stop in our tracks. A smile creeps onto my face - I got something right which dad didn't!

"Harry's your sister." Doctor Watson continues walking.

"Look, what exactly am I supposed to be doing here?"

"Sister!" Dad says furiously, through gritted teeth, whilst I start walking foward again, catching up with John within seconds.

"No, seriously, what am I doing here?"

"He wants you to check something out." I mutter to him, as we approach the tape. Dad is only just beginning to walk again.

"There's always something."

"Hello, freaks," Donovan greets us. Ever the friendly.

"We're here to see Detective Inspector Lestrade," says dad as he catches up.

"Why?"

"We were invited."

"Why?" She repeats, purposley getting on dads nerves.

"I think he wants me to take a look," dad retorts, sarcastically.

"Well, you know what I think, don't you?" Dad lifts the tape for me to swing under, then follows me through.

"Always, Sally," he breathes in through his nose, and I copy. She's wearing a different deodrant then usual - it's a man one. I've smelt this before. "I even know you didn't make it home last night."

"I don't ... " I smirk happily at her loss of words, so she looks over to Doctor Watson. "Er, who's this?"

"Colleague of mine, Doctor Watson," he turns to John, "Doctor Watson, Sergeant Sally Donovan. Old friend," dad says, his voice sprinkled with sarcasim.

"A colleague?" Donovan asks skeptically, "How do you get a colleague?!" She turns to Doctor Watson. "What, did he follow you home?"

"Would it be better if I just waited and ..." Dad gives him a look an lifts the tape.

"No." As Watson ducks under the tape, Donovan lifts her radio to her mouth.

"The Freaks are here. Bringing them in." She leads us over to the house which is surrounded by officers. It is the one I was found in after mother died. Dad was so upset when I left.

I decide to distract myself and bury my feelings once more, as I'm in a case and I can't let them get to me. Knowing this, I look around the area around the front of the house and the road as we approach it. As we reach the pavement, Anderson makes his appearance, dressed in one of those awful coveralls. I breath in through my nose like dad did with Donovan, and I can smell the same scent on him.

"Ah, Anderson. Here we are again." He looks at us with distaste and relectance.

"It's a crime scene. I don't want it contaminated. Are we clear on that?" Dad, sensing my findings, breaths in the deodrant for himself.

"Quite clear. And is your wife away for long?"

"Oh, don't pretend you worked that out. Somebody told you that."

"Your deodorant told me that."

"My deodorant?"

"It's for men," dad says sarcastically.

"Well, of course it's for men! I'm wearing it!" Anderson retorts. How ignorant of him.

"So's Sergeant Donovan." Anderson looks shocked, and turns to Dononvan. Dad sniffs again.

"Ooh, and I think it just vaporised. May I go in?" Anderson turns back to us and points at us, fury etched upon his face. How cute.

"Now look: whatever you're trying to imply ..."

"I'm not implying anything," he says as we walk past Donovan, heading for the door, "I'm sure Sally came round for a nice little chat, and just happened to stay over." He turns back and scans Donovan over, so I do the same. "And I assume she scrubbed your floors, going by the state of her knees." Both of them stare at him in horror, earning them a smug smile as we turn back around to enter the house.


	6. Chapter 5

Dad leads us into a room on the ground floor where Lestrade is pulling on a coverall and points to a pile of the same.

"You need to wear one of these," dad says to Doctor Watson as I take off my gloves and replace them with some latex ones.

"Who's this?" Lestrade asks, gesturing towards John.

"He's with me," dad mutters as Doctor Watson pulls off his jacket.

"But who is he?" Dad looks up and meets Lestrades eyes.

"I said he's with me." Looking uncomfortable, Watson picks up a coverall and looks to me and dad.

"Aren't you gonna put one on?" I look at him in disbelief, and he shakes his head at his stupidity. Forensics would have a field trip if we wore one of these, and they interfere with our senses.

"So where are we?" Dad asks Lestrade as he picks up another pair of latex gloves.

"Upstairs," he answers, leading us up a circular staircase. This is the house I found, I'm certain of it. I hid in the nursery, if I remember correctly.

Both Lestrade and Watson are wearing coveralls.

"I can give you two minutes."

"May need longer," dad says casually. We can only find basic information in that time, but the more important stuff takes a little longer.

"Her name's Jennifer Wilson according to her credit cards. We're running them now for contact details. Hasn't been here long. Some kids found her." So they still use this place, then? Even after what happened with me? The room we're being led to is on the second floor, and is desolate apart from an old rocking horse in the far corner. This is my room. Emergency portable lighting is the only thing that lights up this room and scaffolding holds up parts of the ceiling which has started to deteriate. It's looking a lot worse then when I was here last.

The body is situated in the middle of the room, face down on the hard floorboards, and her arms either side of her head. She's wearing an overcoat in an startling shade of pink and matching high-heeled shoes. I walk over to gather more evidence then what I've got already, and dad holds his hand out to establish the room temperature and to clear his mind of everything unimportant. The room is silent, apart from the fast paced thinking of me and dad, and the brains of Watson and Lestrade who are struggling to find one soluiton. It's quite annoying, actually.

"Shut up," dad says, looking across to Lestrade and John, who both look startled.

"I didn't say anything," replies Lestrade.

"you were thinking. It's annoying." Lestrade and Dr Watson exchange shocked looks as dad steps forwards slowly to stand beside me. I concentrate back on the body but my eyes are drawn to an ingraving which is scratched to her left side. Her middle and index nails are chipped and rough compared with all her other nails which are spotless. She's left handed. I look back at the ingraving and see that it spells 'Rache' which is a German noun meaning revenge. Why would she write that in her last moments? It would have caused her pain. Somewhere in the back of my mind remembers the Harry/Harriet conversation earlier, and her index finger lies at the bottom of the 'e', as if she was about to write some more before she died. How could this word be finished? Rachet? It's modern slang for someone who is crazy or nasty, so is her murderer a known psycopath? No, she wouldn't have used the slang word - there is a high chance that nobody would know the word, and she's also at the wrong age to know it. Rachel, then?

Happy with that suggestion, I kneel down beside the body and check over her jewelery - a good way of getting to know her realationship status, as it may help us. I pull out a small magnifier from my coat pocket and examine her delicate gold braclet. It's clean, and has been regualy cleaned since it was given to her. The same can be said for her earings and necklace, but not for her rings. No, her engagment and wedding ring are both dirty. She's married, but unhappily. The scratches on her rings suggest that she's been married for at least ten years, but now she's growing bored of him. I work the wedding ring off of her finger and hold it up for further examination. I can see now the difference on either side of the ring. The inside is as clean as the rest of her jewelry, but the outside of it is in huge contrast to it. Her partner wasn't satisfying her needs, so she had an affair. One affair couldn't have lasted this long, so a string of lovers, then. The only cleaning the ring got was when it was slid off of her finger as she won another man over, probably to get a better promotion.

Next, I move onto her clothes to see where she comes from. From running my gloved hand down the back of her coat, I can see that it's wet. It was obviously raining where she came from, and hasn't dried - we haven't had rain in London today. Digging into her pocket, I find an umbrella, but even from here I can see it hasn't been used - too windy, then. Finally, I run my fingers along the collor of her coat. Again, it's wet, but it also confirms my deduction on it being too windy for an umbrella. I pull out my phone and start to search through the recent weather forcasts for the last three hours - I need a time radius that would mean her clothes wouldn't have time to dry from the rain. Cardiff! She's from out of town, then, so she would have needed a suitcase. I scan down her legs to look for a splash pattern to show me what size bag she would of had. It's small, the splatters going up her right leg, but not above the calf, and not present at all on the right leg, which suggests that she was wheeling a smallish case behind her. She seems quite fashion consious, so she would only have used a bag like that for an overnight trip. She never reached the hotel, as we can see from the fact that her hair is still tangled from the strong wind in Cardiff. So where's her case?

"Got anything?" Lestrade asks, obviously trying to push our conclusion out of us so that they can get off their butts and actually do something. I must say, I'm rather pleased with my deductions today; they're getting better.

"Not much," dad answers indifferently, and turns to me, "Sophia, what did you get?" I smile and answer.

"Only a few things here and there, but I believe I've covered the basics." He nods and stands up, peeling the gloves off of his hands so that he can start typing, maybe trying to work out where she came from, or something else which I've missed. This room makes me feel a little insecure, and I can feel the shadows of the numerous murders that have happened here play through my mind, so I shake it away dissmissively.

"She's German," says Anderson from his place in the doorway. "'Rache': it's German for 'revenge'. She could be trying to tell us something …" Dad walks quickly over to him and slams the door into his face before he lowers our IQ any more then his presence has already inflicted upon us.

"Yes, thank you for your input," dad says sarcastically before turning and walking back into the room. He taps a few things on his screen as we stand in silence.

"So she's German?" Lestrade confirms incorrectly.

"Of course she's not," dad scoffs. "She's from out of town, though. Intended to stay in London for one night ... " he smiles smugly, and it's evident that he's finally found the weather forcast for Cardiff. " ... before returning home to Cardiff." He finishes as he pockets his phone.

"So far, so obvious."

"Sorry – obvious?" Doctor Watson asks, looking lost.

"What about the message, though?" Lestrade asks, but dad ignores him.

"Doctor Watson, what do you think?"

"Of the message?" He asks.

"Of the body. You're a medical man."

"Wait, no, we have a whole team right outside," Lestrade intervenes, and I roll my eyes. I thought rule one was 'do whatever Sophia and Sherlock tell you to do' which means just go with it. This is how the arguments usually start between other senior members of the police force.

"They won't work with me."

"I'm breaking every rule letting you two in here."

"Yes ... because you need us," dad says and Lestrade stares at him for a few second before he drops them again, helplessly.

"Yes, I do. God help me."

"Doctor Watson," dad says, and the doctor lifts up his head from where he was looking at the body.

"Hm?" Doctor Watson looks towards Lestrade, seeking permission from the detective inspector.

"Oh, do as he says. Help yourself," Lestrade replies, rather tetchily as he turns around to open the door.

"Anderson, keep everyone out for a couple of minutes," he yells, and dissapears for a few seconds. We walk over to the body and dad and I squat down on the left side of the body as Doctor Watson lowers himself onto his knee on the otherside. In his mind, his leg is hurting, so he uses his cane to support himself.

"Well?" Dad asks quietly, looking for Doctor Watsons opinion on the cause of death.

"What am I doing here?" Watson asks softly.

"Helping us make a point."

"I'm supposed to be helping you pay the rent."

"Yeah, well, this is more fun." Oh god, wrong time for this conversation.

"Fun? There's a woman lying dead."

"Perfectly sound analysis, but I was hoping you'd go deeper." Lestrade enters the room once more and John drags his other knee into a kneel so that he can look closer at the body. He puts his head next to hers and sniffs for any signs of alcohol before drawing back up and checking her skin. Finally, he kneels back up and looks across the body to us.

"Yeah ... Asphyxiation, probably. Passed out, choked on her own vomit. Can't smell any alcohol on her. It could have been a seizure; possibly drugs."

"You know what it was. You've read the papers," dad says.

"What, she's one of the suicides? The fourth ...?"

"Sherlock – two minutes, I said. I need anything you've got." We stand up to address him as Doctor Watson struggles to his feet.

"Victim is in her late thirties. Professional person, going by her clothes; I'm guessing something in the media, going by the frankly alarming shade of pink. Travelled from Cardiff today, intending to stay in London for one night. It's obvious from the size of her suitcase."

"Suitcase?" Lestrade questions looking around. I spin around, but I can't see any sign of the case. Forensics must have taken it for evidence.

"Suitcase, yes. She's been married at least ten years, but not happily. She's had a string of lovers but none of them knew she was married." Lestrade raises his eyebrows.

"Oh, for God's sake, if you're just making this up ..." Dad squats down to point at her ring as I continue to search for the missing case.

"Her wedding ring. Ten years old at least. The rest of her jewellery has been regularly cleaned, but not her wedding ring. State of her marriage right there. The inside of the ring is shinier than the outside – that means it's regularly removed. The only polishing it gets is when she works it off her finger. It's not for work; look at her nails. She doesn't work with her hands, so what or rather who does she remove her rings for?" He says, standing back up, and moving towards Lestrade, his analysis speeding up as he reaches his conclusion. "Clearly not one lover; she'd never sustain the fiction of being single over that amount of time, so more likely a string of them. Simple."

"That's brilliant," Doctor Watson says admiringly and dad looks round at him. "Sorry," he apologises, his eyes flicking towards Lestrade. There is defenatley not a case in this room.

"Cardiff?" Asks Lestrade, folding his arms.

"It's obvious, isn't it?"

"It's not obvious to me," says John slowly. Dad pauses as he looks at the other two.

"Dear God, what is it like in your funny little brains? It must be so boring."

"Sherlock!" I hiss, and he turns to the body to explain. They can't help not being geniuses like us.

"Her coat: it's slightly damp. She's been in heavy rain in the last few hours. No rain anywhere in London in that time. Under her coat collar is damp, too. She's turned it up against the wind. She's got an umbrella in her left-hand pocket but it's dry and unused: not just wind, strong wind – too strong to use her umbrella. We know from her suitcase that she was intending to stay overnight, so she must have come a decent distance but she can't have travelled more than two or three hours because her coat still hasn't dried," he explains, fairly slowly, and reaches into his pocket for his phone. "So, where has there been heavy rain and strong wind within the radius of that travel time?" He shows them his phone, and what I can assume is the weather page for Cardiff that I brought up earlier. "Cardiff."

"That's fantastic!" Doctor Watson repeats loudly and dad turns to him, lowering his voice.

"D'you know you do that out loud?"

"Sorry. I'll shut up." Dad shakes his head slightly.

"No, it's ... fine."

"Why d'you keep saying suitcase?" Lestrade asks, bringing us back on topic. Dad spins around in a circle to get a look a proper look at the room.

"Yes, where is it? It's not in here, Sophia would have found it by now. She must have had a phone or an organiser. Find out who Rachel is."

"She was writing 'Rachel'?" Lestrade asks in disbelief.

"No," dad answers sarcastically,"she was leaving an angry note in German! Of course she was writing Rachel; no other word it can be. Question is: why did she wait until she was dying to write it?"

"How d'you know she had a suitcase?" Lestrade asks, and dad points down at her tights where the small black splotches are.

"Back of the right leg: tiny splash marks on the heel and calf, not present on the left. She was dragging a wheeled suitcase behind her with her right hand. Don't get that splash pattern any other way. Smallish case, going by the spread. Case that size, woman this clothes-conscious: could only be an overnight bag, so we know she was staying one night." Dad squats down by her legs so that he can look at them more closely. "Now, where is it? What have you done with it?"

"There wasn't a case." Lestrade says shrugging. I look up at him to meet his eyes. If he's correct, then the murderer has made his first mistake.

"Say that again," dad demands slowly, clarifing that he heard right.

"There wasn't a case. There was never any suitcase." I bolt for the door, and start checking all the rooms.

"Suitcase! Did anyone find a suitcase? Was there a suitcase in this house?" Dad calls out to the police a he hurrys down the stairs. There isn't a reply.

"Sherlock, there was no case!" Lestrade calls from the landing. Dad starts to slow down, but keeps moving.

"But they take the poison themselves; they chew, swallow the pills themselves. There are clear signs, even you lot couldn't miss them."

"Right, yeah, thanks!" Lestrade yells sarcastically as I join dad. "And...?"

"It's murder, all of them. I don't know how, but they're not suicides, they're killings – serial killings." Dad claps his hands in delight.

"We've got ourselves a serial killer. I love those. There's always something to look forward to."

"Why are you saying that?" We stop in between levels.

"Her case! Come on, where is her case? Did she eat it?!" Dad yells sarcastiacally. "Someone else was here, and they took her case." He drops his voice, now talking to himself and me. "So the killer must have driven her here; forgot the case was in the car."

"She could have checked into a hotel, left her case there." Doctor Watson suggests and I shake my head. Dad looks back upstairs to them.

"No, she never got to the hotel. Look at her hair. She colour-coordinates her lipstick and her shoes. She'd never have left any hotel with her hair still looking ..." He stops talking as the idea clicks.

"Oh," he says, his eyes widening and his face lighting up."Oh!" He claps his hands in delight.

"Sherlock?" John yells, sounding concerned for his colleuges sanity.

"What is it, what?" Lestrade asks, leaning over the rail. Dad smiles to himself with joy.

"Serial killers are always hard. You have to wait for them to make a mistake."

"We can't just wait!" Lestrade yells down to us, annoyed.

"Oh, we're done waiting!" Dad shouts as we start moving again.

"Look at her, really look! Houston, we have a mistake. Get on to Cardiff: find out who Jennifer Wilson's family and friends were. Find Rachel!" We reach the bottom of the stairs, and Lestrade and Doctor Watson dissapears from our view.

"Of course, yeah – but what mistake?!" Lestrade calls after us, and dad backtracks, climbing a few stairs.

"PINK!" Dad yells before hurrying off again, me in tow.


	7. Chapter 6

A few minutes down the road, we stop, panting heavily. "How long do you think it would it would have taken for a man to realise he still had a suitcase in his car." I eye dad, knowing that he already knows the answer, but is testing me.

"A man would take more time then a woman, because he wouldn't think of insignificant things such as that," I begin, and dad nods encouragingly. "I would say about five minutes away, by car."

"And where would you look if you had to dispose of a bulky item such as a suitcase?" He asks me, a smile creeping onto his face.

"A skip, most likely, but he'd need to be able to drive there. He'd look a bit strange walking down the street, wheeling a pink suitcase behind him - people would remember him. We need to find an alleyway which is large enough to fit a car through, which has a skip at the end of it. Is that enough to go on?" Dad smiles at me proudly.

"Your deducing is getting better - that is spot on." I smile back at him.

"You knew about Doctor Watsons sister, didn't you?" He asks, raising his eyebrows.

"Yea, some of the scratches on the screen were the shape of nails and the size of the fingerprints looked feminine."

"This is why it's always good to get a second opinion, remember that," he says, and we split off, both of us going in the opposite direction. I follow the road down for about two miles, which takes me about twenty minutes at a sprint. People look at me weirdly as I fly on pass, but I don't care. The bitter air bites at my neck, so I turn the collor up on my coat and tie my scarf tighter. The alleys down this road look fairly large, and you could easily drive a car through this gap. I take the alleyway at a walk - still out of puff from my last run. I've always done well at school in the races - when I can be bothered. School's all a waste of time in my opinion, as they don't teach you anything of **proper** use.

I know from the clothes the victim was wearing that the case would be pink. It's fairly obvious, once you mention it. In this skip, there is nothing remotely colourful, and there isn't much in any of the others either. After I've been searching for at least half an hour, I get a text.

I've got the case

We need some milk

SH

I roll my eyes at his short texts and the little tag at the bottom. It's a Holmes thing. It's better to not let dad do the shopping, otherwise he'll bring back all sorts of rubbish we don't need, and forget the essentials.

I backtrack a little and find myself going along the highstret in Brixton. A black car flies past me and I spot John sat with Lucinda, Mycroft's assistant and bodyguard, in his car.

Lucinda - or 'Anthea' as she calls herself now - was originally an assassin sent out to put an end to my uncle. However, as Mycroft tells it, he managed to persuade her to reconsider. She's who taught me to shoot.

Judging on the direction the car is heading and the route it's taking to get there, I work out that he's heading back to 221B now after diverting somewhere else - his old apartment. The driver doesn't stop to let me in, so I continue to walk to the corner shop at the end of the road.

After a short row with the check-out machine (it was actually quite long. It wouldn't accept my debit card and it insisted that I had an 'unexpected item in the bagging area' which turned out to be nothing more then my phone which incidently contains a tracking device and emergency detonator that Mycroft put into it when he thought I wasn't looking), I catch the cab home. I swing through the kitchen door to put the milk away, and I can hear dad and Doctor Watson disscussing something in the next room. I slide the door open, and gasp. Dad squats down on his armchair in front of Jennifer Wilsons case. His blazer is off, and his shirt sleeves are unbuttoned and pushed up his arms. On his arms are THREE nicotine patches.

"Sorry, what are we doing?" I hear John ask from inside the room. "Did I just text a murderer?! What good will that do?" As if on cue, his phone rings, and I head over to dad.

"Three patches?" I ask him, annoyed. "You're wearing three patches!"

"I know, Sophia." He sighs. "Look, I'm sorry, I'll take two off in a minute."

"Take them off now!" I hiss, as the phone continues to ring. "You promised you wouldn't touch them!"

"I was getting withdraws!" He hisses back. I let a tear slip down my face, then rub it away again quickly as dad goes back to talking to Doctor Watson as he looks over for help on what to do. "A few hours after his last victim, and now he receives a text that can only be from her. If somebody had just found that phone they'd ignore a text like that, but the murderer ..." Dad pauses for dramatic effect until the phone stops ringing, "... would panic." He flips the lid of the pink suitcase shut and stands up, walking over to his jacket on the other side of the room. Doctor Watson continues to look down at the phone, despite the fact that it's stopped ringing, until dad reaches the door.

"Have you talked to the police?" Doctor Watson asks, looking up at last.

"Four people are dead. There isn't time to talk to the police."

"So why are you talking to me?" Dad takes his coat from the hook behind the door and looks across to Watson, but he notices that there is something missing from our mantel piece.

"Mrs Hudson took my skull."

"So I'm basically filling in for your skull?"

"Relax," dad says as he swings his coat back on, "you're doing fine." Watson doesn't move. "Well?"

"Well what?" Doctor Watson asks, looking confused.

"Well, you could just sit there and watch telly."

"What, you want me to come with you?"

"I like company when I go out, and I think better when I talk aloud. The skull just attracts attention, so does talking to Sophia when she's spouting her own conclusion."

"I am here, you know!" I say, trying to cover up for my worry over my dad. Doctor Watson smiles for a second.

"Problem?" Dad asks, raising his eyebrows.

"Yeah, Sergeant Donovan." John says and I groan. What's she said now? Dad looks away in annoyence.

"What about her?"

"She said ... You two get off on this. You enjoy it."

"And I said 'dangerous', and here you are," dad says coolly then strides out of the room and I follow.

"Patches!" I sing in his ear. I'm a little shorter then him, but I'm slowly catching up. He frowns at me, but takes them out.

It takes Doctor Watson a little while to catch up with us, and we walk down the street together.

"Where are we going?" Doctor Watson asks.

"Northumberland Street's a five-minute walk from here."

"You think he's stupid enough to go there?" Dad and I smile expectantly. John doesn't understand the logic of a serial killer.

"No – I think he's brilliant enough. I love the brilliant ones. They're always so desperate to get caught."

"Why?"

"Appreciation! Applause! At long last the spotlight. That's the frailty of genius, John: it needs an audience." John looks pointedly at us.

"Yeah." I laugh, now recovered from the patch scare. Dad ignores the remark and spins around to study the road and the pavement surrounding it.

"This is his hunting ground, right here in the heart of the city. Now that we know his victims were abducted, that changes everything. Because all of his victims disappeared from busy streets, crowded places, but nobody saw them go." Dad clamps his hands to either side of his head. "Think! Who do we trust, even though we don't know them? Who passes unnoticed wherever they go? Who hunts in the middle of a crowd?" I can think of a few, though they'd need narrowing down. Public transport and shops. Transport is my most likely conclusion at the moment.

"Dunno. Who?" John asks, and dad shruggs.

"Haven't the faintest. Hungry?" Dad lowers his hands and leads us into Angelos small resturant at the top of Northumberland Street. Billy gestures us to a reseved table, and winks at me. I know a little while back that he had a thing for me, but it seems he's got over that now.

"Thank you, Billy," dad says as he slides his coat off and sits into the booth at the front of the shop. I slide in beside him and take my own coat off as Billy takes the reserved sign off of the table and dad turns around to look out of the window. John sits down on the other side of the table, his back to the window whilst he takes his jacket off. Dad nods to a building down the road. "Twenty-two Northumberland Street. Keep your eyes on it."

"He isn't just gonna ring the doorbell, though, is he? He'd need to be mad."

"He has killed four people," dad points out.

" ... Okay." John is saved by Angelos arriveral, who seems extremley pleased to see us.

"Sherlock." Angelo says, shaking hands with dad. "Sophia, it's lovely to see you again. Anything on the menu, whatever you want, free," he says, laying a few menus out. "On the house, for you two and for your date, Sherlock."

"Do you want to eat?" Dad asks John, ignoring Angelo's remark. I look down at my lap, embarrassed about the mistake that everyone seems to be making.

"I'm not his date," John says to Angelo.

"This man got me off a murder charge." Angelo tells John, avoiding the 'date' subject.

"This is Angelo," dad introduces, as Angelo reaches his hand to John and they shake. "Three years ago I successfully proved to Lestrade at the time of a particularly vicious triple murder that Angelo was in a completely different part of town, house-breaking."

"He cleared my name." Angelo tells John.

"I cleared it a bit. Anything happening opposite?" Dad ask, looking outside.

"Nothing," Angelo says, before looking to John again. "But for this man, I'd have gone to prison."

"You did go to prison," dad points out, but Angelo ignores him.

"I'll get a candle for the table. It's more romantic."

"I'm not his date!" John yells after him, indignantly, as dad puts his menu back onto the table and looks across to John.

"You may as well eat. We might have a long wait," dad says as Angelo comes back with a small glass cup containing a lit tea-light. He goes again, but not before giving John a thumbs up.

"Thanks!" John yells, tetchily.

"Sophia, do you want anything?" Dad asks me, and I raise my eyebrows at him. He knows I never eat whilst I'm on a case - I'm like him. "You need to eat something today - you haven't eaten for days."

"I'll have something later!" I insist, and he leaves it. John orders some food, but dad and I just stare out of the window and across the road - looking for anything out of the ordinary.

"People don't have arch-enemies," announces John, out of the blue. It takes a minute for dad to realise he's spoken, and finally looks around.

"I'm sorry?"

"In real life. There are no arch-enemies in real life. Doesn't happen." Good luck explaining that to dad - he's already looking out of the window again.

"Doesn't it? Sounds a bit dull."

"So who did I meet?" John asks, but dad ignores him. I'm guessing he's talking about Mycroft. Mycroft does like to by mysterious and dramatic.

"What do real people have, then, in their 'real lives'?"

"Friends; people they know; people they like; people they don't like ... Girlfriends, boyfriends ..." I take a gulp of water, trying to stop the emotions.

"Yes, well, as I was saying – dull," dad mutters, but his eyes tell a different story as he looks out of the window.

"You don't have a girlfriend, then?" John asks. This conversation is getting more and more awkward, and more upsetting for me.

"Girlfriend? No, not really my area." I realise how wrong that must sound to John, but he only means that he's married to his work.

"Mm," John says as he chews on his food, and it takes him a minute for the statment to sink in.

"Oh, right. D'you have a boyfriend?" He asks, looking up at me as if wondering how I'm possible. Dad looks around sharply. "Which is fine, by the way," Doctor Watson recovers quickly. This is extremley awkward, and I can see how much this is hurting dad.

"I know it's fine." John smiles, as if he's trying to reassure dad that he's not being judgemental. I don't know why he keeps going on about it.

"So you've got a boyfriend then?" John asks, certain he'll get a positive reply this time.

"No." Dad replys, his eyes still determinley fixed on the window so that he doesn't let any emotion slip. John continues to smile, but it's becoming more and more fixed and awkward.

"Right. Okay. You're unattached. Like me." He looks down at his plate, seemingly running out of things to say. I wish he would, this is hurting. I never suspected John of being homosexual, but it's certainly how he's coming across."Fine," he clears his throat, "Good."

John continues to eat, and dad turns to look at him suspiciously, as if trying to work out what he was meaning, but then he turns his attention back to the window again as another tear slips down my cheek. Tonight seems to be the night for memories. I'm going to have more nightmares again tonight, that's for certain. After a few seconds, dad seems to have registered Johns meaning and turns back to face him.

"John, um ... " He begins, awkwardly, "I think you should know that I consider myself married to my work, and while I'm flattered by your interest, I'm really not looking for any ..."

"No." John interrupts dads babbling and turns his head to clear his throat. "No, I'm not asking. No." He secures his gaze onto dads. "I'm just saying, it's all fine." Dad looks at him for a second, then nods.

"Good. Thank you." Dad turns his attention back to the street as John looks away with a bemused expression on his face. It is a possibility that he's homosexual as there have been cases of siblings all being gay, but the balance of probability seems to stack against it and it's a conclusion I didn't reach with him.

Dad used to think he was asexual before he met mum, but unlike what everyone else believes, he's actually demisexual meaning he has to have an intense emotional connection before even considering a sexual relationship. However, this often means he gets coined with the term 'bisexual' because he can get sexual urges with either sex.

A taxi pulls up outside the building that dad gestured to earlier, waking me from my thoughts and I notice nobody getting out or in. There is already a passenger inside, and he seems to be looking for someone, although he seems a little puzzled about why they've stopped. It almost confirms my theory earlier on public transport being the key to the murders, but before I can explain to dad, he nods to the window. "Look across the street," he demands. "Taxi." John twists around in his seat to look out of the window at the cab. "Stopped. Nobody getting in, and nobody getting out. Why a taxi?" He mutters to himself. "Oh, that's clever. Is it clever? Why is it clever?" I smile at him. I think he knows the answer, but the recent events are muddling up his logic.

"That's him?" John asks, stating the obvious as usual.

"Don't stare." Dad mutters to him, causing John to look around at us.

"You're staring, and so's Sophie"

"We can't all stare." Dad gets to his feet and I follow, throwing on my coat and scarf as I head for the door. He puts his coat on outside the door, his eyes still secured onto the taxi. The passenger continues to look around before he looks back at the resturant and at us. Dad and I hold our gaze with him before he turns back to face the front and the taxi pulls away. I immediately start to run after it, and narrowly avoid being hit by a car in the process. Dad and John vault over it, and I realise that Doctor Watson has left his cane back in the resturant. I run after it for a few yards before it dawns on me that it's impossible for me to catch up with it. Immediately, I recall the map of London to the front of my brain so that I can check the street maps. Dad and John stop beside me, one after the other.

"I've got the cab number." John informs us.

"Good for you." Dad says, bringing his hands up to his head as he also focuses on a mental map of London. I memorised the cab number when we were in the resturant, and there was no doubt dad did too.

"Right turn, one way, roadworks, traffic lights, bus lane, pedestrian crossing, left turn only, traffic lights." Dad says out loud and quickly. After working out the route the taxi will take, I lift my head and see a man unlocking a door to a building nearby. This will lead us to the roofs, and from there we can cut off the taxi from it's destination. Dad, obviously seeing the same opportunity as me, shoves the man out of the way before bolting into the building.

"Oy!" The man yells as I run past him, and I hear John mutter an apology a he sails past. I take the stairs two at a time, whereas John stuggles to keep up behind me.

"Come on, John," dad calls as we climb the circular metal staircase, me hot on his heels. As we reach the top, dad runs over to another set of stairs which lead down the side of the building. I sprint after dad, my greatcoat flying out behind me. At the bottom of the steps, I vault over a rail and leap the gap in between the buildings. Without stopping, we run the length of the building before jumping another, bigger gap. I hear John stop behind me to look down at the fall he would take if he failed, and the gap between us grows bigger. "Come on, John. We're losing him!" Dad yells and I hear John land the other side safely. We run the length of the other buliding before flying down some more stairs and onto a ledge before we finally drop, one by one, into a darkened alleyway. In my head, I can sort of work out both the route we're taking and the one the taxi's taking, and in doing that, I can see our destination - it's not far from here. I can see we're closing in on the taxi as we swerve down numerous alleyways and finaly down the one that leads to D'Arblay Street. I speed up, but the taxi passes the end from the right. I hear dad let out an exclamation of anger from in front, and we continue running, turning right without breaking stride. "This way," dad shouts, but instinctivley, John turns left, after the taxi. "No, this way!"

"Sorry," John yells as he turns back around and heads back in the opposite direction, now following me. There is a new place that I've worked out we can intercept the taxi, and I think, at the speed we're doing, we'll succeed. We head down two more roads, through a side street and across a footpath before we finally reach the interception point at Wardour Street. Dad hurls himself across in front of the taxi and it screeches to a stop as he slams his hands into the bonnet of the car. I dig into my pocket to find Donovans I.D. badge and I flash it at the driver before joining dad at the right side of the cab.

"Police! Open her up!" Dad shouts, panting heavily as he opens the door. I groan as I take in the passengers appearance. He looks anxiously out at us and dad straightens up in exasperation as John catches up with us. "No," he sighs and leans down again to look at the passenger.

"Teeth, tan: what – Californian?" I look down at the luggage in front of the passenger. LAX to LHR. Los Angles International Airport to London Heathrow Airport, for those who didn't know. "L.A., Santa Monica. Just arrived." He straightens up again, grimacing.

"How can you possibly know that?" John pants.

"The luggage." John looks down at the label and dad turns back to the passenger. "It's probably your first trip to London, right, going by your final destination and the route the cabbie was taking you?"

"Sorry – are you guys the police?" The American asks, looking more confused then ever. Dad flashes his badge, and I copy.

"Yeah. Everything all right?" The passenger smiles, flashing his perfect white teeth.

"Yeah." I turn and walk away as dad pauses, considering how to finish the sentance. I can't help but glance at the cabbie. He looks at me, and winks. Instantly, I start making a deduction about him. He lives alone after his wife left with his kids but he still loves them. His clothes - at least three years old judging by how worn out they look, yet still laundered. He wants to keep up appearences, but isn't bothered with keeping up with the fashion. All in all, a fairly normal cabbie. The taxi driver smirks and shakes his head in dissapointment, turning his head back around to face the road.

"Welcome to London," I hear dad say before he walks away, leaving John staring blankly at the passenger for a moment.

"Er, any problems, just let us know." The man nods and John smiles, shutting the cab door. I join dads side as he taps a message to Angelo as John starts to walk over to us.

"Basically just a cab that happened to slow down," John mutters to us as dad pockets the phone.

"Basically," dad replies.

"Not the murderer."

"Not the murderer, no," dad replies, exasperated at his mistake.

"Wrong country, good alibi."

"As they go," dad says, as he switches the I.D. card from one hand to another.

"Hey, where - where did you get this? Here," John asks, reaching for the card. "Right," he says as he looks down at the card. "Detective Inspector Lestrade?"

"Yeah. I pickpocket him when he's annoying. Sophia has Dovovans, so you can keep that one, I've got plenty at the flat." John nods as he looks down the card again before lifting his head, chuckiling quietly.

"What?"

"Nothing, just: '"Welcome to London"'." I smirk at dads soft laugh and look down the road. A police officer has gone to see why the cab has stopped in the middle of the road, and the passenger is talking to him, and pointing down at us.

"Now we're in trouble." I say, nudging dad so that he looks down the road.

"Got your breath back?" Dad asks John.

"Ready when you are." We turn around and start running back to our flat before we get sent to prison for impersonating a police officer, again.


	8. Chapter 7

The run back was in silence as we fly back to Baker Street. John hangs his coat up on a hook in the hallway of 221 like a good boy, whilst dad and I throw ours onto the bottom of the banister for Mrs Hudson to pick up later.

"Okay, that was ridiculous," John remarks as we stand against the wall, panting heavily. "That was the most ridiculous thing I've ever done."

"And you invaded Afghanistan," dad points out, and John and I laugh, and are soon joined by dad.

"That wasn't just me. Why aren't we back at the restaurant?" Dad waves a dissmissive hand.

"Oh, they can keep an eye out. It was a long shot anyway."

"So what were we doing there?" John asks and dad clears his throat.

"Oh, just passing the time," dad replies, and looks at John. "And proving a point."

"What point?" John asks, looking puzzled. He still hasn't realised that he's just run halfway across London without his cane.

"You," dad says as he turns towards the door of Mrs Hudson's flat. "Mrs Hudson!" He yells. "Doctor Watson will take the room upstairs."

"Says who?" Asks John quieter, than big mouth next to me.

"Says the man at the door," dad answers, looking towards the door. John turns his head in time for Angelo to knock the door three times. John turns back to face dad in suprise, and dad smiles. John stares at him for a bit before he turns and walks down the hall to open the door. Dad and I still lie against the wall, sighing heavily. We listen to the conversation, and I wait for Johns reaction.

"Sherlock texted me," Angelo begins, smiling and holding up the walking stick. "He said you forgot this." John stares at the cane in suprise and disbelief, but takes it.

"Ah," he mutters, turning to look down the hall at us and we grin back at him. "Er, thank you. Thank you," he says, turning back around to face Angelo. As he comes in and closes the door, Mrs Hudson comes out if her flat looking upset and tearfull.

"Sherlock, what have you done?" She asks as she hurries over. I look at her confused.

"Mrs Hudson?" Dad asks, concerned. We've had all sorts in our flat before, and I just hope they didn't hurt Mrs Hudson, because I've learnt to love her already.

"Upstairs," she says, nearly breaking into tears. I turn and run up the stairs taking two at a time, and the boys follow me. Dad pushes in front of me and opens the door to the living room. I groan in disbelief as I see Lestrade sitting casually in dads chair in front of the case and facing the door as some other officers search through our possesions.

"What are you doing?" Dad asks angrily, storming over to Lestrade.

"Well, I knew you'd find the case. I'm not stupid." I snort, and he looks at me, slightly hurt, but brushes over it.

"You can't just break into my flat," dad protests.

"And you can't withhold evidence. And I didn't break into your flat."

"Well, what do you call this then?" Lestrade looks around at the officers, searching for his excuse befire turning back to us.

"It's a drugs bust," he replies innocently. Inside, I curse, but my face is emotionless.

"Seriously?! This guy, a junkie?! Have you met him?!" Dad walks over to John, biting his lip nervously, whilst I stay still, scowling at Lestrade.

"John ..." Dad begins quietly.

"I'm pretty sure you could search this flat all day, you wouldn't find anything you could call recreational." John continues to Lestrade, ignoring dad.

"John, you probably want to shut up now." Dad mutters.

"Yeah, but come on ..." John begins, then meets dads eyes. Dad holds the gaze for a moment, and then John realises how serious dad is being. "No," John says, in disbelief.

"What?"

"You?"

"Shut up!" Dad says angrily. The last thing we need is for them to find anything. "I'm not your sniffer dog." Dad growls, turning back to Lestrade.

"No, Anderson's my sniffer dog." He replys, nodding towards the kitchen.

"What, An..." The kitchen door slides open to reaveal yet more officers. I wonder how many limbs they've already found. I don't even want to think about it. Anderson turns towards us and waves sarcastically at us. He's wasn't on the drug squad, the last time I checked. "Anderson, what are you doing here on a drugs bust?" Dad yells angrily.

"Oh, I volunteered," he says venomously. I throw him a look, then turn away to stop myself from retorting.

"They all did," Lestrade says nonchantly. "They're not strictly speaking on the drugs squad, but they're very keen." Donovan comes into the doorway of the kitchen holding up my small glass of eyeballs.

"Are these human eyes?" She asks in disbelief.

"Put those back!" Dad snaps.

"They were in the microwave!" She says, as if we didn't know.

"It's an experiment," he hisses.

"Keep looking, guys," Lestrade yells as he stands up and turns to talk to us. "Or you could help us properly and I'll stand them down."

"This is childish," dad says, pacing angrily.

"Well, I'm dealing with a child," Lestrade snaps. "Sherlock, this is our case. I'm letting you in, but you do not go off on your own. Clear?" I have to stop myself from sniggering at how much that sounds like a mother telling off her child for running away. Dad stops pacing and glares at Lestrade.

"Oh, what, so... so... so... you set up a pretend drugs bust to bully me?"

"It stops being pretend if they find anything." Lestrade taunts.

"I am clean!" Dad yells.

"Is your flat?" Lestrade says. "All of it?"

"I don't even smoke," dad stresses, unbuttoning his shirt sleeve and rolling it up to show him the only patch he's left on.

"Neither do I," Lestrade replies, pulling his own sleeve up to place it next to dad. Dad rolls his eyes and turns away as they pull their sleeves back down. "So let's work together. We've found Rachel." My eyes snap up to meet his, now intrested. Dad turns back around to face him.

"Who is she?"

"Jennifer Wilson's only daughter," Lestrade replies. Why must these things always come down to the children? Dad frowns.

"Her daughter? Why would she write her daughter's name? Why?"

"Never mind that. We found the case," Anderson says pointing to the pink case in front of dads chair.

"According to someone, the murderer has the case, and we found it in the hands of our favourite psychopath." The most common mistake when it comes to me and my dad, and we get annoyed at peoples ignorance. Dad looks at him disparagingly.

"I'm not a psychopath, Anderson. I'm a high-functioning sociopath. Do your research." Dad turns back to Lestrade. "You need to bring Rachel in. You need to question her. I need to question her."

"She's dead," Lestrade says simply.

"Excellent!" Dad cries, startiling John. "How, when and why? Is there a connection? There has to be."

"Well, I doubt it, since she's been dead for fourteen years. Technically she was never alive. Rachel was Jennifer Wilson's stillborn daughter, fourteen years ago." That can't be right, there has to be someone else that she means.

"No, that's ... that's not right. How ... Why would she do that? Why?" Dad asks himself, just as confused as I am.

"Why would she think of her daughter in her last moments?!" Anderson repeats sarcastically. "Yup - sociopath; I'm seeing it now." Dad turns to him, looking exasperated at having to explain everything to the biggest idiot on the world.

"She didn't think about her daughter," dad says. "She scratched her name on the floor with her fingernails. She was dying. It took effort. It would have hurt." He begins to pace again.

"You said that the victims all took the poison themselves, that he makes them take it. Well, maybe he ... I don't know, talks to them? Maybe he used the death of her daughter somehow." John suggests, but if she was never alive, the victim wouldn't be upset, would she?

"Yeah, but that was ages ago," dad says, stopping to face John. "Why would she still be upset?" John stares at him in disbelief and everyone in the flat is looking at us. Dad looks around at everyone, then turns back awkwardly to John. "Not good?" Dad mutters, and John glances around at everyone before replying.

"Bit not good, yeah." Dad brushes it off and steps closer to John, looking at him intently.

"Yeah, but if you were dying ... if you'd been murdered: in your very last few seconds what would you say?"

"'Please, God, let me live.'" John says.

"Oh, use your imagination!" Dad says, exasperated. John flinches in pain of the memories.

"I don't have to," he says sadly. Dad realises Johns pain and pauses, blinking and shuffling his feet apoligetically before he continues.

"Yeah, but if you were clever, really clever ... Jennifer Wilson running all those lovers: she was clever. Sophia, what would you say?" He asks me, pacing.

"I would give a clue to who was my murderer, or leave something behind to tell them where to find them." Dad nods, approvingly.

"That's more likely. She's trying to tell us something." Dad concludes as Mrs Hudson enters the room.

"Isn't the doorbell working? Your taxi's here, Sherlock."

"I didn't order a taxi. Go away." Dad says, waving her away dissmissivley. Dad continues to pace as Mrs Hudson looks around the room.

"Oh, dear. They're making such a mess. What are they looking for?" John turns to her, seeming to be the only one paying any attention to her. Me and dad are trying to think, but we can't with this much disruption.

"It's a drugs bust, Mrs Hudson."

"But they're just for my hip," she says, anxiously. "They're herbal soothers." Dad stops pacing with his back to the door.

"Shut up, everybody, shut up! Don't move, don't speak, don't breathe. I'm trying to think. Anderson, face the other way. You're putting me off."

"What? My face is?!" Anderson asks, in disbelief.

"Everybody quiet and still. Anderson, turn your back." Lestrade shouts.

"Oh, for God's sake!" says Anderson.

"Your back, now, please!" Lestrade yells, and reluctantly, Anderson turns around.

"Come on, think. Quick!" Dad mutters to himself.

"What about your taxi?" Mrs Hudson asks, and I feel annoyed at the inturruption. Dad turns to face her.

"MRS HUDSON!" He shouts, furious. Mrs Hudson turns and hurries back back down the stairs. My brain works away, trying to figure out what Rachel could mean. Dad stops and looks around the room. "Oh." Dad smiles in delight. The room stares at him as he talks to himself.

"Ah! She was clever, clever, yes!" He walks across the room to the case ad turns to face the others. "She's cleverer than you lot and she's dead. Do you see, do you get it? She didn't lose her phone, she never lost it. She planted it on him." Dad starts pacing again, still talking. "When she got out of the car, she knew that she was going to her death. She left the phone in order to lead us to her killer."

"But how?" Lestrade asks, oblivious to the truth. She's done what I said I would do. Dad stops, and stares at Lestrade as if he's stupid for not figuring it out himself. He's an idiot, he can't help it.

"Wha...? What do you mean, how?" Lestrade shrugs, still oblivious.

"Rachel!" Dad looks so triumphant, but everyone stares at him so blankly. "Don't you see? Rachel!" Rachel the police officer in the kitchen turns around, thinking he's looking to her for an explanation. Dad laughs in disbelief. "Oh, look at you lot. You're all so vacant. Is it nice not being me? It must be so relaxing." He stops smiling and starts speaking more seriously. "Rachel is not a name."

"Then what is it?" John asks. Dad walks over to his laptop and starts typing.

"John, on the luggage, there's a label. E-mail address." John looks at the label and reads the address out loud.

"Er, .uk." Dad looks down at his computer and brings up the website for her email account.

"Oh, I've been too slow. She didn't have a laptop, which means she did her business on her phone, so it's a smartphone, it's e-mail enabled." He types up the address into the user name box. "So there was a website for her account. The username is her e-mail address ..." He finishes typing in the first box and moves across the the password one.

" ... and all together now, the password is?" John walks over to dad, and I follow him.

"Rachel," John says, still not entirely getting at what we're doing.

"So we can read her e-mails. So what?" Anderson asks from the kitchen, and I feel my eyes roll.

"Anderson, don't talk out loud. You lower the I.Q. of the whole street," dad says, and I have to smirk. "We can do much more than just read her e-mails. It's a smartphone, it's got GPS, which means if you lose it you can locate it online. She's leading us directly to the man who killed her."

"Unless he got rid of it," Lestrade says.

"We know he didn't," John mutters to him as dad looks impatiently at the screen, waiting for the map reference.

"Come on, come on. Quickly!" Mrs Hudson comes back up the stairs, looking a bit impatient.

"Sherlock, dear. This taxi driver ..." She fades away as dad stands up and walks over to her, towering above her small frame.

"Mrs Hudson, isn't it time for your evening soother?" Dad asks sarcastically, but trying to get it through to her that we didn't order any taxi. John sits down in the chair in front of the laptop and watches the clock spin around as dad turns back to Lestrade. "We need to get vehicles, get a helicopter." Dad orders Lestrade, who looks uncertain. Mrs Hudson looks around anxiously at all of the mess everywhere, and the shadow of a man comes up behind her. "We're gonna have to move fast. This phone battery won't last for ever."

"We'll just have a map reference, not a name." Lestrade says, trying to avoid actually doing something for once instead of setting up false drugs busts.

"It's a start!" Dad replies, as a map starts to come onto the computer.

"Sherlock ..." John begins, but dad continues to speak.

"It narrows it down from just anyone in London. It's the first proper lead that we've had."

"Sherlock ..." John tries again as it zooms onto ... no ... It can't be ... Dad hurries over to look at the screen.

"What is it? Quickly, where?" The map has stopped zooming, and the position of the phone is very clear, even if it can't be right.

"It's here," John says slowly. "It's in 221 Baker Street." Dad straightens up, looking confused.

"How can it be here? How?"

"Well, maybe it was in the case when you brought it back and it fell out somewhere." Lestrade suggests.

"What, and I didn't notice it? Me? I didn't notice?" Dad says slowly, turning around the room.

"Anyway, we texted him and he called back," John says to Lestrade. The phone can't be here.

"Guys, we're also looking for a mobile somewhere here, belonged to the victim ..." Lestrade yells to the officers, but my mind blocks him out as I look at the man in the doorway. He's the same taxi driver as earlier, I'm certain. I think back to the question dad asked me and John earlier about who we trust and who goes under the radar. Taxis, of course! All of the victims had one thing in common - they all needed a taxi. Sir Jeffery - he needed one when he got off at the wrong train station. James Philimore - It was pouring with rain on the night of his murder. Beth Davenport - she lost her carkeys. And finally Jennifer Wilson. The pink lady. She needed to get to her hotel, and the cabbie was getting desperate. He didn't kill the American because he was afraid that I would remember him. So why turn up now? Is he handing himself in? On the landing, the taxi driver takes a pink smartphone from his pocket and touches the screen to send off a text. A _pink_ smartphone. In the next second, dads own phone buzzes with a text alert. Dad reaches into his pocket and reads the text, which, of course, I can't see. He turns his head towards the door in time to see the taxi driver turn around and head calmly down the stairs.

"Sherlock, you okay?" John asks, sensing dads uneasy quiet. Dad watches the man go.

"What? Yeah, yeah, I-I'm fine," he says vaugely, anticipating whether or not to go.

"So, how can the phone be here?" John asks, but dad is still looking out of the door, and not paying full attention to what John's saying.

"Dunno." John gets his own phone out of his pocket.

"I'll try it again."

"Good idea," dad says, as he heads towards the door.

"Where are you going?" John asks, looking confused at dads sudden change of behaviour and looks to me for help.

"Fresh air. Just popping outside for a moment. Won't be long." John frowns as dad leaves the room.

"You sure you're all right?" John calls after him a dad hurries down the stairs.

"I'm fine," Dad calls back.

"I'll go after him." I mutter, running after him. "Sherlock, please. This man will kill you!" I mutter to him on the stairs. He stops and looks at me with pity.

"This is what you don't understand yet, Sophia. I _must_ go, even if that means I die solving it." A tear slips from my eye, and he brushes it away. "Look, I'll be carefull, alright? You can come after me, but leave it about ten minutes and bring John, okay? I'll be okay." He kisses me on the forehead, then leaves me on the stairs, the tears rolling freely down my face as I'm unsure whether I'll see him alive again, but I do understand why he must go.


	9. Chapter 8

I stand on the stairs for a few seconds, wiping away the tears until I hear the door slam shut downstairs. I walk back up the stairs and try to look as emotionless as usual.

"He'll be back in a minute," I say casually, and I'm pleased to hear that my voice has stayed level. John nods from his seat in front of the laptop.

"Any idea what's up?" Lestrade asks, and I shrug.

"He's just gone sonewhere quiet so that he can think." I lie, both to myself and to everyone else. Maybe if I convince myself, then it'll come true. I'm scared of what will happen if I'm not there beside him.

"Okay, well I'll try ringing the mobile, and maybe we can find the phone from there." John mutters, and I nod, not really paying any attention. Outside, I can hear the cab pull away, and I know dad is inside it. John's hears it as well, and looks out of the window.

"He just got in a cab," he mutters, turning to Lestrade. "It's Sherlock. He just drove off in a cab." Donovon tuts in irritation as she stands beside Lestrade.

"I told you, he does that," she says to John, then turns to Lestrade. "He bloody left again." She walks back into the kitchen, shouting orders, but I block her out, too worried as I look out the window to reply. 'Caring is not an advantage', as I've been told many times by dear Mycroft, but I can't help it. He cares about my dad, so I should be allowed too.

"I'm calling the phone. It's ringing out," John says to Lestrade. I listen for the ring, but I can't hear anything and neither can Lestrade or John.

"If it's ringing, it's not here," Lestrade says as John lowers his phone and reaches for the computer.

"I'll try the search again." John says firmly.

"Does it matter?" Donovon asks Lestrade, coming over to confront him. "Does any of it? You know, he's just a lunatic, and he'll always let you down, and you're wasting your time. All our time." I let another tear slip down as I hear her critisize him, but I wipe it away to turn around. Lestrade holds her gaze for a moment, then he sighs.

"Okay, everybody. Done 'ere." Lestrade shouts, and gradually they trickle out. Lestrade picks up his coat and turns to me and John.

"Why did he do that? Why did he have to leave?" John shrugs.

"You know him better than I do."

"I've known him for five years and no, I don't."

"So why do you put up with him?" John asks.

"Because I'm desperate, that's why." he walks to the door and turns back around. "And because Sherlock Holmes is a great man. And I think one day, if we're very, very lucky, he might even be a good one." I laugh half heartedly, and Lestrade sends me a pitying look. "Call me if you have any problems, yeah?" He says to me, and I nod. He turns and leaves and John and I sit together for a bit, just staring at the screen of dads laptop as the clock whirs away.

"What is up with your dad, Sophia?" John asks me. I bite my lip, unsure whether or not to tell him. "Come on, you need to tell me if you know something."

"That taxi we were chasing earlier ..." I fade of, looking out of the window as I feel the tears coming on. John looks at me, a comforting look in his eyes.

"Yeah, what about it?" I cough, and look back at him.

"The cabbie, he's the murderer, and dad's just gone off with him." John draws back, looking suprised and worried. "I tried to stop him..." I choke on my tears and turn away. John places a comforting hand on my shoulder, and bites his lip, unsure of what to do.

"Don't you know where he's going?" I shake my head, and wipe away the tears. "Well ..." He fades off, looking around the room for inspiration. "We could always try and track the cab - I still have his number." I nod, hopelessly. It's not going to work, but it's worth a try and it'll keep me occupied. With a final swipe, I wipe the tears away and head downstairs for my coat. John comes down a few minutes later, clutching dads laptop.

"Found it?" I ask, all emotion cleared from my voice again. He smiles sadly at me, and nods.

"Yeah, he's actually moving at the moment."

"Then his murder spot will be quite far away. Where's it at the moment?" John shuggs. I roll my eyes and lead him out onto the street, hailing a taxi as it sails down the road.

"Where to, Miss?" He calls.

"I don't actually know!" I titter falsely. "I lost my phone and it's giving me directions on where to find it. Do you think you could take us there, please?" The cabbie smiles at me.

"Yeah, sure. I've got nothing else to do tonight -"

"Lovely," I say, cutting off his rambling and getting in. John sits in beside me, and starts giving the taxi driver directions on where to go. John gets onto the phone to Scotland Yard as soon as we pull out of Baker Street.

"Yeah, hi, I need to speak to Detective Inspector Lestrade." John says, pausing to hear the phones reply as they try and divert the call.

"No, Detective Inspector Lestrade. I need to speak to him. It's important. It's an emergency!" John looks down at the laptop as it shows the next turning coming up.

"Er, left here, please. Left here," he instructs the cabbie. A million possibilities fill my busy mind of where dad could be as we continue down the road. "Good, yeah, I'll ... I'll see you then." The taxi comes to a stop outside Roland-Kerr College a few minutes later. What a convenient place for dads murder. We file out, and I thank the taxi driver before shoving a few notes towards him as he pulls away. John groans as he sees the double buildings, but this is defenately the place - the other cab is still here outside. John tucks the laptop inside his jacket and turns to me. "Which one?"

"I can't tell," I say truthfully. "You take the left one, I'll go right." John looks hesitant.

"You sure you're going to be okay?" He asks, and I roll my eyes, tapping my pocket so that he sees the outline of a gun. Grimacing, he nods, and I start running through the building.

My entire world is in a haze of worry and panic as I fly through the buliding, peering frantically though windows to try and find dad. I couldn't bear to think of what would happen if I didn't get to him in time. What would happen to me? Where would I go? I can't loose him as well as mother, and I can't live with John - I've barely spoken two sentences to him. All that matters to me now is finding dad before it's too late.

"Sherlock?" I call loudly, still running through the corridors and glimpsing through the windows. "Sherlock!" I run towards a large door and pull it open to check it's unlocked. It is, but nobody's inside so I carry on running, knowing inside that he must be somewhere here. I race up a flight of stairs, and head left down a corridor and through another door. I hear a gunshot, and I know I'm too late. My heartbeat quickens, but my muscules stop, and tears fall from my eyes. He's gone. I wipe the tears furiously from my eyes and pull out my gun, then I continue onwards,slower then before, but more determined. I throw another door open, and I almost let out a shriek of happiness. Dad kneels beside the body of the cabbie, who looks like he's alive, but only just. Ahead is a bullet hole in the window of where John got here before I did and the glass lays shattered around the floor. He looks up at dad with shock and pain.

"Was I right?" Dad asks, brandishing a small pill. The cabbie turns his head away from dad and I can see the pool of blood beneath it. "I was, wasn't I? Did I get it right?!" Dad asks angrily. The taxi driver doesn't reply, so dad hurls the pill across the room and stands up. I run over to fetch the pill for testing later. "Okay, tell me this: your sponsor. Who was it? The one who told you about me – my 'fan'. I want a name."

"No," The driver gasps.

"You're dying, but there's still time to hurt you," dad says threatingly. "Give me a name." The driver shakes his head, and dad places his leg onto his shoulder, where the shot hit. The cabbie gasps in pain. "A name." He cries out again. "Now." He's in too much pain to talk, but dad looks intent and manic as he leans his weight onto his foot so that the cabbie whimpers. "The NAME!" Dad shouts furiously.

"MORIARTY!" The driver croaks, agonised. His eyes close, and his head lolls to the side. He's dead. Dad steps back looking thoughtful as he mutters the word. Is it a name? Or is it an organisation? Either way, I haven't heard of it, and that's what makes me feel so uneasy. Outside, I hear the parade of sirens come to a stop and the doors slam shut as the officers come in to search the place. I run up to dad and put my arms around him, sobbing into his jacket.

"I thought you..." I choke. I feel him nod and he kisses my head.

"You've been incredibley brave, Sophia." He whispers softly. "Everything is going to be alright, he's dead now." I stand up straight, wiping the tears away for what I'm hoping to be is the last time this evening. A couple of medics come in with orange shock blankets, and they lead us out and past a trolley which is for the body. Both of us try to shake off the blankets but with no success. They lead us to the back of the Ambulance where we sit and chat, shrugging off the blanket again as the medics walk away. "Did you get the pill?" Dad asks me softly, and I nod, not trusting my voice yet. I'm saved by Lestrade coming over, but not before the medics place the blankets on us _again_. "Why have we got this blanket?" Dad asks him, gesturing towards the blanket. "They keep putting this blanket on us."

"Yeah, it's for shock," Lestrade explains.

"I'm not in shock." Dad emphasises.

"Yeah, but some of the guys wanna take photographs," Lestrade grins and we roll our eyes. We'll be on social media as we speak, and we'll be the laughing stock of Scotland Yard.

"So, the shooter. No sign?" Dad asks, and I put my poker face on, not wanting to reveal John to the police.

"Cleared off before we got 'ere. But a guy like that would have had enemies, I suppose. One of them could have been following him but got nothing to go on," he shrugs, and dad looks at him pointedly.

"Oh, I wouldn't say that." Now it's Lestrade's turn to roll his eyes, and I bite my lip nervously, hoping dad doesn't give too much away. He wouldn't give John up knowingly.

"Okay, gimme." Dad and I stand up with the blankets still wrapped around us.

"The bullet they just dug out of the wall's from a hand gun. Kill shot over that distance from that kind of a weapon – that's a crack shot you're looking for, but not just a marksman; a fighter. His hands couldn't have shaken at all, so clearly he's acclimatised to violence. He didn't fire until I was in immediate danger, though, so strong moral principle. You're looking for a man probably with a history of military service ..." dad turns his head and sees John standing behind the police tape, beginning to make the connection but not realising it yet. "... and nerves of steel ..." he finally trails off as John looks around at us innocently and then turns his head away again. I can see the lightbulb light up in dads head as he makes the connection. Lestrade follows his gaze, but dad turns back to him before he can ask any questions."Actually, do you know what? Ignore me."

"Sorry?" Lestrade questions, looking puzzled.

"Ignore all of that. It's just the, er, the shock talking," he says, walking towards John.

"Where're you going?" Lestrade shouts.

"I just need to talk about the-the rent." Dad says vaugley.

"But I've still got questions for you." Dad turns back in irritation.

"Oh, what now?" Dad asks, sounding annoyed. "I'm in shock! We both are! Look, we've got a blanket!" He lifts the sides of his blanket as if to prove it.

"Sherlock!" Lestrade yells.

"And I just caught you a serial killer ... more or less." Lestrade pauses and looks at us thoughtfully for a moment, trying to work out whether to let us off or not.

"Okay. We'll bring you in tomorrow. Off you go."

"Thank you!" I shout back, sarcastically as we walk away. Dad takes the blanket off of my shoulders and bundles it up, taking his own off as well and doing the same as we approach John, before tossing it in through the open window of a nearby police car.

"Um, Sergeant Donovan's just been explaining everything, the two pills. Been a dreadful business, hasn't it? Dreadful." John says nervously as we duck under the police tape. Dad looks at John for a moment.

"Good shot," dad says quietly. John tries and completely fails to look innocent.

"Yes. Yes, must have been, through that window."

"Well, you'd know." Dad says, still quietly. John gazes at him still trying to recover his innocent expression.

"Need to get the powder burns out of your fingers. I don't suppose you'd serve time for this, but let's avoid the court case." John clears his throat and looks around nervously, still not admitting the obvious truth, and I'm certainly not saying anything. "Are you all right?" Dad asks, seriously, looking intently at him.

"Yes, of course I'm all right."

"Well, you have just killed a man."

"Yes, I ..." He admits finally, trailing off as dad looks at him closely."That's true, innit?" John smiles, but it looks closer to a grimace as dad continues to watch him. "But he wasn't a very nice man." Reassured that John really is okay, dad nods in agreement and drops the serious demenour.

"No. No, he wasn't really, was he?"

"And frankly a bloody awful cabbie." I laugh, and dad follows suite, turning to lead us away.

"That's true. He was a bad cabbie. Should have seen the route he took us to get here!" John laughs, dad smiles and I just shake my head at their immaturity.

"Stop! Stop, we can't giggle, it's a crime scene! Stop it!"

"You're the one who shot him. Don't blame me." Dad says loudly as we approach Donovan.

"Keep your voice down!" John hisses as we walk past. "Sorry – it's just, um, nerves, I think." John apologises to her.

"Sorry," dad mutters to her before John clears his throat as we walk away.

"You were gonna take that damned pill, weren't you?" Dad turns back to him.

"Course I wasn't. Biding my time. Knew you'd turn up." He turns and smiles at me.

"No you didn't. It's how you get your kicks, isn't it? You risk your life to prove you're clever."

"Why would I do that?" Dad asks, trying to sound innocent.

"Because you're an idiot." Dad smiles, delighted that somebody finally understands us. After a moment, he forces the smile down.

"Dinner?"

"Starving," John agrees.

"End of Baker Street, there's a good Chinese stays open 'til two. You can always tell a good Chinese by examining the bottom third of the door handle."

"Interesting, Sherlock. I'm sure John is fascinated." John laughs and dad looks at me, hurt. John drops his laugh as a black car pulls up and a man and a woman gets out.

"Sherlock. That's him. That's the man I was talking to you about." Dad looks up and groans.

"I know exactly who that is." We walk closer to them, dad looking angry at his and Lucinda's sudden appearance. John looks around, as if looking for the police officers in case we need their help. They couldn't do anything to prevent their childish bickering.

"So, another case cracked. How very public spirited ... though that's never really your motivation, is it?" Mycroft says to dad, just looking for a reason to pick a fight.

"What are you doing here?" Dad demands.

"As ever, I'm concerned about you." I scoff at his pathetic excuse.

"Yes, I've been hearing about your 'concern'."

"Always so aggressive," Mycroft scolds. "Did it never occur to you that you and I belong on the same side?"

"Oddly enough, no!"

"We have more in common than you like to believe. This petty feud between us is simply childish. People will suffer ... and you know how it always upset Mummy." I roll my eyes - it always comes down to this. John frowns as if unsure of what he's heard and I have to stop myself from laughing at his ignorance.

"I upset her? Me?" Dad sneers an Mycroft glowers at him.

"It wasn't me that upset her, Mycroft."

"No, no, wait. Mummy? Who's Mummy?" John asks, finally lost.

"Mother – our mother." Dad explains, keeping his eyes on Mycroft. "This is my brother, Mycroft." John stares at him in amazment. "Putting on weight again?" Dad teases Mycroft like usual.

"Losing it, in fact." Mycroft sneers.

"He's your brother?!" John asks dad, still suprised.

"Of course he's my brother."

"So he's not ..."

"Not what?" We all look at him as John shrugs in embarrassment.

"I dunno – criminal mastermind?" John grimace at having even suggested it. I laugh as dad stares at Uncle Mycroft negatively.

"Close enough."

"For goodness' sake," Mycroft snaps. "I occupy a minor position in the British government."

"He is the British government, when he's not too busy being the British Secret Service or the CIA on a freelance basis." Dad tells John and Mycroft sighs, annoyed. "Good evening, Mycroft. Try not to start a war before I get home. You know what it does for the traffic." Dad and I walk away, but John stays behind with Mycroft.

"They'll be talking about us now," I say, nudging dad. "God, he's annoying." Dad chuckles.

"You don't know the half of it." John catches up with us and we walk down the road, side by side.

"Some day, huh."

"Mmm! I can always predict the fortune cookies."

"No you can't."

"Almost can. You did get shot, though."

"Sorry?' John asks, lost in the change of topic.

In Afghanistan. There was an actual wound."

"Oh, yeah. Shoulder."

"Shoulder! I thought so," dad says in delight.

"No you didn't."

"The left one."

"Lucky guess." John fires back.

"I never guess," dad lies, smiling and John laughs.

"Yes you do. What are you so happy about?"

"Moriarty," dad says.

"What's 'Moriarty'?"

"I've absolutely no idea." Dad says happily as we continue our way home, momenterially enjoying the rather tedious calm that has swept through London, for now.


	10. Epilogue

"I'm bored!" I scream as I pace the living room of 221B Baker Street in London.

"You're not the only one," dad groans from his position on the sofa. "No cases, no juicy murders - London's perfectly dry!"

"Grr," I yell furiously through gritted teeth. It's been two whole weeks since the Pink Lady case, and London seems to have run out of creative ideas for cases. It's true we've had clients, but only boring ones like: '"My Gran died, and I think it was murder."' You see my problem. The doorbell rings and my eyes light up at the sound. "Single ring," I whisper.

"Maximum pressure," dad adds.

"Just under half a second," I smile.

"Client!" We both yell, and dad stands up and starts pacing towards the door as Mrs Hudson brings up the client. The client makes me raise my eyebrows, but I'm not one to judge someone on how they look. He's dressed in heavy robes and his face is almost completely covered in scarves of a different variety.

"Mr and Miss Holmes," he greets us in a low voice as he bows. Dad and I bow back respectfully, and dad gestures for him to sit on the sofa.

"What do you have for us?" Dad questions as he paces in front of the man and I pull out a chair to sit on.

"A diamond," he begins slowly, and dad stops.

"It's gone missing," dad states, and the man nods.

"It is one of our country's most valued possessions, Mr Holmes. It is said that the great God Meromes cast it out of a star from the sky to protect our ancient land. You can understand why we need it back?" Dad raises his eyebrows and starts pacing again.

"I wouldn't believe everything you hear," dad mutters.

"Are you implying that there is no God then, Mr Holmes?" The client demands, standing up from his seat. I mirror him, pushing my chair back under the table.

"Of course there isn't," dad scoffs. "It's a figure of peoples imagination - there is no God." The client draws a large scimitar from somewhere and dad rolls his eyes. "Dull," he mutters just as the sword comes down.


End file.
